


These are the Things That Destroy Us

by pulling_at_stitches



Category: Cow Chop, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF, The Creatures (Youtube RPF)
Genre: Fake Chop, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-03 17:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10971936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulling_at_stitches/pseuds/pulling_at_stitches
Summary: They weren't a gang. Not really. They'd never spat on each others shaken hands, or organised an initiation, or had a meeting about dress code. They hadn't planned any of it. The five of them had molded together, melted into each other like heated plastic, leaving scorch marks on the furniture.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mistakes are my own.  
> I think, by the end of all this, the only thing left of the actual people are their names, their references and their love of utter chaos.

The bear outfit is chalky with dry sweat. The liner is flaking, leaving scabs of fabric stuck to Aleks’ skin. He takes one clawed glove off to get a better grip on his gun. The air is wet with gunpowder and smoke and the inside of his ears are burning. This, he thinks, was a fucking stupid idea. James is crouching over a body by the back door. The starched white shirt stretched across its gelatinous belly is caked in blood. One of James’ bright red coat tails is fraying and there’s an ancient top hat staggering about on his head. He uses the barrel of his hunting rifle to nudge at the body’s face.

‘Yeah?’ Aleks asks.

‘Yeah.’ James straightens up. ‘Not the Vet though.’ His hat topples from his head and he doesn’t catch it in time. Aleks laughs and he hears Aron chuckle in his earpiece. 

The alive guests are quivering against the wall under Trevor’s machete; a dark red clown grin is crusted onto his face. A single yellow balloon is tied to the handle. Joe, wearing a tux, is squashed in behind a sagging neck draped in rhinestones and a set of false teeth veined in tar. He is trying very hard not to giggle. 

‘That it?’ James asks, pressing his finger deep into his ear. Aleks rolls his eyes to the high vaulted ceiling where the plaster is molded into delicate vines, and sighs. 

‘Nah,’ they hear tapping, then ‘heat signal, first floor. Think he’s hiding...in a closet maybe?’

James nods at Aleks. 

Aleks starts towards the stairs. ‘Already gone dude.’ 

James is by Trevor, whose hair is flattened under a kinked rainbow wig. ‘You good?’ He asks. 

Trevor grins and his teeth are coated in black paint. ‘Always man.’ 

James wheezes and none of them can look at each other. Trevor starts to jostle the flapping cluster of guests into the vault. When Joe mock whispers about his fear of _being buttfucked_ to the rhinestone lady next to him, Trevor almost drops his machete and James howls, shaking the corpse he is dragging. They open the vault door using the dead man’s fingers, barrel his body into the room and start to pile stacked notes into rucksacks. Joe flickers in the shivering murmur of people, scanning for phone recordings or panic buttons, collecting purses as he goes. 

Upstairs, it is dark, blue-tainted and cold. Aleks’ feet are sinking into the carpet, leaving smears of filth. The doors are slick white and yawning open. He follows the throbbing sound of thick breathing and arrives at a walk-in closet. He lays his gun on a dark polished sideboard and digs his knife out from his sock. The cheap fluffy ears stuck to his head flop, hollow and lifeless. He drags his knife over the dresses hanging; silk and satin and layers of something velvet - the blade slipping through the cloth until he can see the heat signal. He is crouched and frozen, his eyes injected and watery. He smells of piss. Aleks kneels down next to him, watches him scrabble back, flat against the wall. 

‘The fuck are you guys? The fucking Carnival Kids?’ His voice is cracked and evaporating, spread tight across his fear. 

Aleks frowns. ‘That’ll do.’ He says. He slides his knife along the crease between the thick neck and chest and gazes at the blood as it swells over the black suit jacket and spills onto the cream carpet. He watches him jerk until he stops, his grunts slowing and twisting to whines, and his fingers clutching at nothing. A wave of sickness digs itself deep in Aleks’ throat. He runs his nails into his hair and squeezes his eyes shut until the gagging passes. He steps over the blossoming bruise of blood and turns back. James narrows his eyes at him in the corridor.

‘You alright dude?’

‘Never better man.’ Alek’s hands are wet with gritty sweat. 

They dump their outfits and go for breakfast. Trevor’s face is still smudged with face-paint and their rucksacks bump against their feet under the table. The vinyl table grips at their forearms and the windows are hazy with dirt. James keeps saying _buttfucked_. They are frothing at the mouth and their hearts are buzzing. They are bigger than LA. They are bigger than the whole world. Aleks’ veins are filled with something molten and his coffee tastes of sugar and cinnamon.

-x-

They weren't a gang. Not really. They'd never spat on each others shaken hands, or organised an initiation, or had a meeting about dress code. They hadn't planned any of it. The five of them had molded together, melted into each other like heated plastic, leaving scorch marks on the furniture. 

James and Joe’s childhoods were twisted together. They were five and sharing a paddling pool in the front yard, the grass brown and sharp under their feet. They were ten and playing Ring and Run, diving into bushes to hide and riding battered skateboards over potholes. They were fifteen with chains holding on to their duct tape wallets and dirt curdling under their fingernails, copper coins squeezed tight in their palms. While Joe's mum polished the wooden floors of the big houses on Marigold Boulevard with her chapped, dry hands; the boys would dig in the trash bins in the back. They'd take any barely broken bits to sell. Half used cell phone batteries and scratchy analogue radios. One-eyed dolls and buttonless shirts. By seventeen they had swollen cheeks and bleeding lips, thin slivers of paper dollars hidden in their socks. James had grown his thick curly hair long enough for it to coil around his ears and tickle at his neck. His first Miranda rights were read to him with his arm stuck over the top of an open car window - the blunted edge of the glass biting into the soft skin under his shoulder, his fingers inches from the door lock. Joe; light and tiny had slid through the crowd, his face sticky and wet, his breath harsh and broken. 

Joe finds Aron in the empty months after, when he’s walking the dog; trailing through the dried fields on the edge of town, the stems of dead things breaking under his feet. The houses along the edges of the cornfields are shuttered and yawning and Joe passes Aron every day for two weeks. He sits against the wooden fence around his porch, his face illuminated by the heat of his laptop screen. Joe lets the stumpy legged corgi off the lead on the second week, so that she runs over the front lawn and clatters up the splintering front steps. Aron jumps when she stuffs her wet nose into the gap between his ear and shoulder but he strokes her under her chin and she rolls onto her back, her tail wagging. Joe watches him type faster than the speed of light and laughs when he sends sex toys to the Youth Mission across the street. Joe brings credit cards for Aron to copy and Aron buys dog treats. Joe doesn't ask about the sleeping bag he can see through the screen door, seeping across the bare living room floor, but he asks Aron to move in with him and his mum. Joe’s mom feeds them, until they move and she blesses them on their way out the door, tears under her lashes as she kisses Joe’s cheek. He is like wind on the subway, purses and watches deep in his pockets as their owners stutter away on stuffed carriages. His trophies from the trains pile up against the coffee table and the open living room door, thick leather wallets and jewelry littered with tiny diamonds. His smile is big, beaming, disarming. He overhears everything and everyone; political aspirations and affairs, abortions and drugs addictions. He tells Aron stories with his mouth full of homemade pie and his fingers black from counting their money. 

Aron sells everything Joe takes online; untraceable, unnoticeable. He is quiet, slight, thin and gangling. Long-suffering. He sighs as he sweeps up ashes from indoor fireworks and mops ice-cream from the skirting boards, but he slaughters Joe in video games and grins when he changes cell ringtones to porn soundtracks. He hunches over his laptop and sighs heavily as he breaks through firewalls and security gates, shares eyes with government CCTV and listens to crackling radio waves. He takes apart their phones and puts them back together and, suddenly, they can pick up police chatter. He spends months trying to build a tiny desk robot from spare parts, tinkering with the circuits, crafting jointed arms. Joe makes him walk the corgi with him, for fresh air, and he shuffles and whines, his sneakers dragging on the concrete sidewalks. The corgi gets fatter and they think about buying a gun.

-x-

Aleks is hiding. He is whimpering and folded, curled inside a dumpster on 5th. Everything hurts. His eyes are burrowing into his skull and the skin at his elbow is stretched over something broken. He grinds his teeth together and blinks slowly, ignores the rotting pear core smearing itself over his left ear. He wriggles enough to push his back against the side of the bin, and the smell rises in smoke coils. He waits for the retching to past, and uses his good arm to dig out his phone. 

00.41 **James __** _Where the fuck are you?_

00.42 **Trevor __** _Did you fuck it?_

00.42 **Trevor __** _You fucked it_

00.42 **James** _Aleks I will murder you_

00.42 **James** _If you aren’t dead when I get there_

00.43 **James** _You better not be dead when I get there_

00.47 **James** _Are you dead?_

00.55 **James __** _Jesus fucking Christ dude_

00.56 **James __** _You fucked it_

01.15. Aleks had fucked it. Heat blooms across his thin face and his stomach churns. A growl is scrabbling at the back of his throat and his lips are catching a snarl. He tries to pulls his fingers into a fist but his hands curls around something slime soaked and sticky and he gags instead, swears. Blood trips over his eyebrow in teardrops and he whines under his breath. He can feel his fingers, but he can’t move his elbow. The pain is sharp and tearing, slicing across him in deep curls. Outside, there are heavy shifts and soft footsteps. Faltering voices and the slick laughter of hidden fear. Aleks slides further into the garbage, his chin on his chest. Through the steel wall and layers of grime; gunfire flickers bright and sudden then fades. Someone choke-screams and the ache of silence after is fiery. He can’t hear James wheezing and he is fucked fucked fucked. In the damp quiet his heart aches. His knife had clattered across the tarmac when the bullet had breathed around his arm. He hadn’t bought his gun. This better be someone else’s fault, he thinks. It isn’t his. It can’t be. He reaches up to squeeze his phone in the gap between the rubber lid and the metal lip of the dumpster. He pulls his sweater up over his nose, buries his working arm around himself and waits for it to ring. 

Later, under clammy strip lighting and smothered in white plaster Trevor calls him ‘Dumpster Baby’ and Aleks’ punch cracks his cast. James coats venom into his words whenever he looks at Aleks and the second cast takes so much longer than the first. By the time they pour out into the street, the grass is starting to wilt in the sun and Aleks is frosted in dried filth and the smell of something decaying. He feels like he is melting, spreading across the parking lot and gluing to the tarmac. James pulls him by his good arm and wrestles him into the car. Joe has coated the back seat in towels. Trevor sits down gingerly next to him, as close to the door as he can get. James gets into front and leans over the head rest. ‘Never fucking again Aleks.’

Aleks is suddenly sharp. The pain in his arm brand new and biting. ‘Fine.’

‘Say it.’

‘Dude.’

‘Say it.’

‘Come on.’

Joe turns. ‘Just say it man.’

‘Alright, alright. Never fucking again.’

‘Good.’ James is staring straight through him. His brown eyes rimmed in white. 

‘Yeah.’ Aleks nods, quieter. ‘Never fucking again.’

-x-

In Juvie, James bounces against Aleks in the canteen line. The bright blue of his sleeve tattoo stark against the beige of their jumpsuits, the beige wall, the beige faces of the guards staring just over their shoulders and never meeting their eyes. It was a good tattoo too, for Juvie. Clean lines and deep color, healed smooth over his pale skin. James stands next to him and watches him raise one single passive eyebrow as two boys tear at each other faces with their teeth. Pink, squealing wardens pull them apart and Aleks snorts when James whispers ' _fucking_ _amateurs_ ' under his breath. When James sits at a spare table, Aleks sits next to him; one arm hanging over the back of his chair, a knee pushed against the plastic top. 

'How long?' he asks. 

'Six months.' 

He blinks slowly once, sucks his teeth. 'Where you from?'

'St. Arch.'

'Have I heard of you?'

James chews at his bottom lip. 'James Wilson.'

'Well that's fucking generic.' He laughs with a thick heavy catch of his breath and James smirks. 

'There's no one else from St. Arch here,' Aleks continues. He picks up his spoon with two fingers and pulls it through his mashed potatoes. 

James narrows his eyes, 'Lie.'

Aleks tilts his head. 'Okay fair. No one worth knowing. I've kept to myself and the other two -'

'Have half a face each.'

'Yeah.'

They fall into silence for a while. It is soft, with jagged edges. James keeps glancing to his side, watching Aleks' long fingers twist through themselves. 

Aleks coughs, 'It would be good to have some sort of -'

'I have stuff we can sell. Protection for half?'

Aleks laughs.

They sell to the younger boys, hear chatter from above their heads, the rise and fall of the small time in the towns surrounding them. They start small; weed and tobacco in tiny paper rolls. Then bigger; meth inside the rubber of wardens’ boots, knives slid from Joe's sleeves. Aleks is original Russian, barely watered down, first generation immigrant. He mutters sadistic threats in violent letters and James mimics him, pulling at the vowels, making Aleks angry enough to slap at the back of his head. Aleks weaves his butterfly knife through his fingers, carving shapes through the early morning mist hanging over the outfield. He sees how close he can get to James’ face before James breaks and pushes him, swearing. They kick the shit out of boy who tries to steal a razor from their hiding place inside a shower head and when Aleks looks up from the blood speckled across his trainers, his canines are bright through his wet lips. James smiles back, then calls him gay and punches him in the balls. Aleks chokes on the floor and waits till lights out to smack James back. He lies retching on the top bunk and Aleks giggles through his hands. They leave Juvie on the same day. The heat waves across the concrete and the sweat runs down James’ neck. Aleks slides next to him into Joe's rusted Chevrolet and the engine chokes once before it runs. They pile onto the sofa at Joe’s place and Aleks doesn’t go home. 

For a while, there are four of them and it never feels like they’re missing something. They dig their fingers into the spine of St. Arch and pull. James buys a gun. He likes the way the pistol is heavy in his hand, the slide of the metal over his callused skin. He likes the heavy thrum of gunpowder that vibrates up his arm and the ache of adrenaline under his belly, the catch of the barrel under his jeans. He giggles when the boys out of Harbour threaten them; his shirt pulled tight across his gun. He chuckles when the addicts don’t pay up, grins when sales fall through, smirks when police breathe down his neck and when the cops finally find their first safe-house, he wheezes enough to retch. They are rumors that a straight faced James is the last one you seen before you die. James does nothing to dispel them. 

Aleks is thin-lipped, straight backed, faster than lightening. His eyes are sharp. He talks less than James does, stares with his hands deep in his pockets and his wit snapping at heels. His knives skid across soft melting flesh and he is always just off to side, slightly out of sight. He hasn’t killed anyone yet, but he has left them for dead; his blade sliding between their ribs and something terrible in Russian echoing in their ears. At home, he slouches in soft focus, a joint hanging from his lips. He snorts with laughter as they play video games into the night, his movements slow and heavy. He sleeps with the door wide open and the hall light on, his feet jerking under the duvet. 

By the end of the year they own it. At least, the part of town cast in the most shadow. The addicts bless their Martyr Aleks and James has his fingerprints blurred by the beat cop on their payroll. The corgi goes on a diet and the boredom is deadly. They start to tug at the rules. Aleks sprays James with pepper spray on a rent collection, James stashes stink bombs in Aaron's laptop bag, Aaron carries an electric razor and takes a chunk of hair from Aleks' head at a drug swap. Joe is heavenly, above them, and tips gallons of hot sauce into the spaghetti he makes for dinner. 

-x-

There is a sliver of light through the gap in the door and ghost of a footprint pressed into the concrete front step. Aleks knows that whisper. The ache of death that whistles through rooms when he passes through. Not here though, never here. Behind him James breathes, heavy; loud enough to prove he’s alive. The blood splatter doesn’t start until they reach the stairs. The droplets are painted across the white banisters and the striped wallpaper. They merge into pools at the top of the stairs, shining puddles streaming across the worn carpet and dribbling over the steel runners between rooms. The door-frame of the bathroom has been chewed and spat out, sprayed across the hallway. Aron is crouched in the bathtub, his eyes tired and glassy, grey under the spluttering light. One hand is clutching the shower curtain, leaving heart shaped bloodstains on the plastic. His other hand is two foot away, floating gently in the sink. There is a furious dread inside Aleks. Under Aron’s chin, a chunk of something slippy and red hangs, dripping. He is still and he doesn’t blink and Aleks watches him not breathe until James swears behind him and puts his fist through the plywood door. They leave him. They can’t. He has family somewhere and his ID is in his wallet on the kitchen counter. Aleks swirls gasoline around the house with his working arm, watching the glossy rainbows pooling between the floorboards. He stands for too long holding three matches, and when it finally catches it leaves scorch marks etched into his pants. 

Their anger is shrill and shrieking, tight around Aleks’ throat. He can’t sleep. Aron’s hand floats behind his eyelids and circles the drain, the fingers blue and floppy. He stalks around the warehouse and chews at his fingernails. Trevor burns Aron’s laptop in the carpark and they stand round to watch the flames melt the prints from the keyboard. 

Trevor nudges his toe in the dirt. ‘Should’ve seen that one coming.’

Aleks looks up to the pink clouds skirting the horizon. He supposes they should have done. They were too big, too fast, too insane. The ashes drift lazily and his eyes sting. LA had taken them under her wing and pulled their teeth out.

‘We retaliate.’ James is looking straight at Aleks, his sneer starting to eat at the edges of his mouth. Aleks can feel his knife in his pocket. His teeth feel sticky. ‘Do we?’ He can feel his cheeks pull at his lips.

‘Fuck yeah we do. We put the Vet and his Creatures down.’

Trevor is tight-lipped and faded. ‘With who? With what? There’s fucking four of us, James. They used a fucking chainsaw to get through the door.’

‘A challenge, baby boy.’ 

Trevor is six foot four of wobbling rage. ‘James. Stop. Fuck off.’

Aleks licks his lips. ‘The biggest surprise take of the season.’

‘I’m not dying for this.’ Trevor‘s face is blotchy and bright with spite.

Aleks tilts his head, follows the path of a tear when it runs from the close corner of Trevor’s eye. ‘What are you dying for then?’

‘What?’ Trevor’s voice is paper thin. 

‘If you aren’t dying for this, what are you dying for?’

Trevor stares blankly at James, who blinks slowly at him. Time is hazy, full of cracks. Joe runs two hands through his hair, and says ‘We’ll get help.’

James turns away from Trevor, slides his hands in his pockets. ‘Brett.’ 

Joe nods. 

Aleks is itchy. The fire on the tarmac is hot around his legs. Somewhere in the distance he can hear sirens and the clattering bounce of guns. He remembers everything all at once. Colored russian letters and frozen rivers, the sound of the ventilator and the dry stale air in the aeroplane, the feeling of warm blood spurting through his fingers. He’d die for this. He probably already has. 

-x-

They meet Trevor when winter has set in and they have robbed three banks outside of town; dressed as characters from Harry Potter, with dildos strapped onto the barrels of their shotguns, an arm of Aleks' jacket on fire. Trevor is far too big to be hiding in the back of a peeling apartment on the east side of St. Arch; juggling with test tubes coated in fine powder and foul smelling chemicals in thick heavy jars. The boys had been buying their stash in from the city, already cut with rat poison and baby talc. They lose sales when the winter starts, coke suits from the business center stop calling and no one whistles when Joe drives the Chevrolet down the east block. Aleks pulls a few nails and they find the bastard, selling clear cut crystal under Weston Bridge. James cracks his spine over his knee and listens to the clink of his teeth hitting the ground as he spits out the address. Aleks carves a 'W' into each of his ass-cheeks and James coughs on his own laughter. They find Trevor, trying to fold himself under the kitchen worktop to hide, his face crumpled and bright red. He's the only one in the building, left for dead. James settles himself on the arm of an upturned sofa and beckons Trevor to him. 'The rest out selling?' he asks. His mouth is open, friendly and his eyes are bright black. 

Trevor nods, he is standing now, hopping from foot to foot. His hands are rigid by his side and his forehead is clammy under the bulb swinging from the roof. 

'He is big boy,' Aleks' is leaning by the door frame, using a knife to flick bits of plywood onto the floor. His faked accent struggles under the weight of his voice. 

James tilts his head. 'They leave you to fight?' 

'No,' Trevor is grey and lightheaded. 

'Big boy is big and scared. Bullied in school, yes?' 

James waves a hand at Aleks. His eyes don't leave Trevor. 'Then why did they leave you here?'

'I make the stuff.' 

'All of it?’

'Yeah I guess.'

'Big boy is big chef.'

'Shut up Aleks. Jesus Christ.' James reaches over to hit Aleks in the stomach but Aleks dodges.

'So you just sit in and make shit all day?' 

‘Pretty much. I was good at chemistry, knew a lot about weed.'

'Don't we all.' Aleks is back to his American accent and Trevor looks up, his eyebrows knitted in confusion.

James gets up and tips a jar, following the purple liquid as it slips around the glass. 'Why?' 

Trevor turns back to him, 'why what?'

'Why do you work for them? You aren't a seller, you're not packing, you are shit-scared of the Russian-'

'I've heard all about the Russian.' 

Aleks grins, 'We've all heard of the Russian.'

'Aleks, for fuck's sake-' 

Trevor interrupts them both. 'I'm good at it.'

There’s silence. 

‘That’s it?’ James’ fingers start to itch over the back of his jeans. 

‘No, I mean, yeah. I don’t know what to tell you. I make meth and molly in a fucking a-grade kitchen. I just mess around, man.’ 

Aleks kicks a table leg. ‘Mess around?’

‘I like making stuff.’

James is starting to jerk; they’ve been here too long. ‘How many came back here?’

Trevor runs a hand through his hair. ‘Three.’ 

‘You friends with them?’

‘Nah. We were sent from Denver.’

‘Brett send you?’

‘What? No, no. Brett’s in LA dude. He’s long gone. Left.’

Aleks smirks and punches James in the shoulder. James ignores him. ‘We’re going to clear this shit out.’ Trevor puts his hands up. ‘Go right ahead man, nothing to do with me.’

Aleks points a single finger in Trevor’s direction. ‘And you’re coming with us.’

James tilts his head, but doesn’t argue. He pulls his gun from the back of his pants and settles in a molting armchair facing the door. Trevor slides into the bathroom and nestles into the bathtub. He curls up and pulls his jacket over his ears. Aleks stands the empty door-frame and smirks behind his sunglasses. The screams are chapped and cracked. 

They are unsure, at first. Trevor is a contradiction. He kisses his fingers when he hands over cut speed to sell, but jumps whenever Joe slips into a room. He bitches when he catches his hands on glass edges, but falls down concrete stairs to make James laugh. He shares joints with Aleks in the front room, in their tracksuit pants and socks, blowing smoke rings over the worn carpet. Aron sets himself up next to him in the garage. The low fizz of the bunsen burner and the sharp sound of typing lulling them both into a comfortable silence. He gagged once, gently, when Aleks came back flaking dried blood and chewing his tongue. He’s young, younger than the rest of them and his mom calls him every Sunday. He lies about college with his mouth full of day old pizza and Dr. Pepper. 

Four weeks in and he barrels down the hallway, screeching, thin wisps of dirty white smoke escaping from under his rubber gloves. He throws a steel tin into the street and crouches behind the screen front door. The can rolls into the gutter and vomits mist into the drain. James laughs so much he cries. Aleks rolls onto his stomach on the sofa and stares at Trevor over the arm of the couch.

‘What the fuck dude?’

‘Lithium.’ Trevor whispers, wiping sweat from his eyelids. He is out of breath and steaming. 

‘Dude.’ ‘What?’ Trevor makes his way to standing, crumpled at the waist, sweat staining his shirt. ‘I thought it’d be cheaper to get it out cell batteries.’

‘Looks well worth it man.’

‘Fuck off.’

Aleks takes a long thick drag and falls from the couch when Aron runs into the street to yob the tin back through the open window. Trevor skids into the kitchen and trips over the corgi, sleeping in a hot spot on the tiles, and lands jack-knifed against a counter. He moans against the plastic door and Aleks coughs on wet smoke, laughter crawling up the back of his throat. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are always my own.

‘I hear you’re down a techie.’

‘News travels fast.’ Aleks wants to murder him. 

They’re in Burbank. No one has claimed Aron’s body yet. The sun is prickly heat and Aleks can feel the scorch travelling down the back of his neck. The cast around his arm is grime etched and stinking. The sidewalk is cracked, the soil underneath spilling onto the road and coating the gutters in grime. Him and James are standing on the concrete steps outside FunHaus. The Aryan in their way is blowing smoke in their faces and grinning. His shirt is undone and underneath his fake tan looks like charred chicken.

‘Can we go in now?’ James’ eyebrows are high-rise. 

‘Sure, sure, man. We’re all good here.’ Aleks still wants to murder him. 

Inside, the AC is butter across Aleks’ back and in the kitchen, they’re sucking on ice and blending smoothies. There are sticky hugs and back slaps. The room is painted in swaths of bent glass and the sun oozes quietly through the transparent walls. 

‘Who’s the cuck outside?’James asks. 

‘Ignore him, he’s a cunt. He’s not even on the payroll.’

‘He’s not?’

‘Nah, he just hangs around buying weed and hoping someone will take him on a fucking ridealong.’

James snorts and bites into an apple. ‘Where’s Brett?’

‘He’s in Texas.’

‘Who caught him?’ 

There’s laughter. ‘He’s trying to make her Mom love him again.’

‘He fucking her too?’

Behind them Bruce chuckles and make Aleks jump. 

‘Hello boys.’ He is mock camp, and scrapes his massive hand down James’ spine. James squeals and scuttles out his way. Bruce snorts and Aleks roll his eyes. 

‘You need help?’ Bruce is bearded and giant, his forearms are truck tyres resting on the marble-veined counter. He is barrel-chested and dimpled. He slides into one of the high stools at the breakfast bar. 

‘You heard?’

‘We did.’ Bruce sighs. ‘Shame. He seemed like a good one.’

‘He was.’ The silence is cloying and wet. Bruce coughs. ‘Honestly didn’t think you get a hit back. The Vet is underground. They’re dying, and they’re old.’ 

James grins. ‘Almost as old as you.’

‘You fuck.’ Someone throws a banana skin at James and it misses. Aleks snorts. 

‘Although,’ Bruce is starting to smile, ‘I’m not sure dressing as the fucking carny was a great idea.’

Aleks tilts his head and helps himself to a glass of something orange and healthy waved in his direction. ‘It was an excellent idea.’

Bruce laughs. He wheezes almost as much as James does. ‘Alright, alright. Fair.’

FunHaus are clever, quiet. They sell enough and not too much, they circle Burbank in tight bands of trust and hold it hard against their hearts. Their three man front line is brutal and sarcastic, laughter running underneath their threats and through their baseball bats. Bruce wears cargo shorts to drop offs and their techie is a man-baby in a bomber jacket and ski-goggles. They host amateur wrestling and get shit-faced in the office on slow days. They giggle like James does and raise heartbeats like Aleks, but they’re slick and established. Their heists are clockwork and their gear is straight from the boats. James had arrived at their office with a peace offering of Puerto Rican Rum, Trevor’s best cut and the promise not to sell within a mile of Burbank. Later, three fourths through the bottle Bruce admitted that they only reason they said yes was because James was the first one to ask. 

‘What do you need?’ 

‘Bodies mostly.’ Aleks leans across the breakfast bar. His shirt sleeves rolled up, scars biting red and shiny white through the blue of his tattoo. ‘We need to look bigger than we are. They’ve cut right back. Disappeared out of Inglewood. He’s waiting until we look like we can’t handle it and they’ll swipe in to pick us off.’

James nods. ‘We think he’s hiding in Del Ray, but if we leave them…’

Bruce picks up the thread. ‘He’ll come back to dig out the rot.’

Aleks laughs, ‘Harsh, dude, harsh.’ Bruce looks over their shoulders and tilts his head. Aleks tenses, but the moment passes and he is left coiled and feverish. 

‘You’re not leading.’ Bruce has his eyes locked on Aleks, so brown they’re black. 

‘Why-’ James interrupts him. ‘I lead.’

Bruce nods but Aleks is taut. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘You.’

‘How fucking exactly-’

‘We can all see your cast from here.’ Bruce is soft around the edges but granite underneath. ‘We can’t go blind into this shit. You bring your gun and you stay in reach and you don’t fucking leave.’

Aleks’ lips are a thin blue line. The rest of the room avoid his eyes.

‘When?’ Bruce asks, turning to James. James looks at Aleks who shrugs, culled. James blinks. ‘We’re ready whenever man.’

Bruce taps his fingers across the tabletop and sighs. ‘Yeah, okay. We’re in. Better make it earlier than dawn. Saturday.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘The whole team?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck, Bruce. I dunno what to say man.’

‘Nothing. It’s easier.’ He heads towards the door and two of the bigger guys peel away to follow him. ‘Two things though.’

James is bouncing, and Aleks can feel the vibration burning through his chest. ‘Go.’

‘You owe us -’

‘Of course man, anything.’

‘-and Elyse is coming.’ Bruce leaves and James almost drops his glass of grass juice. Aleks’ cheeks hurt. James is whooping with laughter and the sound snaps across the room. 

-x-

The weeks turn to months and no-one else sells in St. Arch. Summer settles them into a routine. Joe is always up first, out with the corgi as the sun boils the wet dew from the wild lawn and the traffic on the main street is stagnant and pooling. He burns coffee until James can’t stand the smell and gets up to save it. Trevor and Aleks shuffle out later, cowlicks and scrunched faces. Aleks can’t speak until he is two mugs deep and the bleariness has lifted from his eyes. James collects protection rent, prefers the morning when they’re tired and cross-eyed. The two bars under them still beer sticky and smoked veined. The weed shop on Kent Road has the shutters up and the liquor store is dense with stale air. Aleks is on drug rounds, the regular dumps at the regular stops. He carries the big bags for the downstream guys; a couple of taxi drivers, club promoters, a business suit, and a few users who sell the hardcore stuff for him. They’re desperate, trustworthy, paid in cut offs. The minute they fuck up, they’re gone. Him and James meet for lunch and hurl insults at each other over filled sandwiches. 

At home, Trevor starts up in the garage, bubbling gas through thick liquid and listening to radio one, humming along to pop under his breath. Sometimes, when he’s finished a batch and wants some clean untainted air, he gets into the car with Joe. He rolls the window down and lets the wind cut through to his lungs. Joe takes them round the estate, sells tiny batches to casuals looking for a hit. Trevor gets antsy and bounces in his seat until Joe makes him walk after the car. The tarmac sticks to his sneakers and wiry dogs bark at him from behind splintering paint-chapped fences. He buys 99 cent ice-cream cones from the truck parked near the green school fields while Joe laughs at him, sunbeams glinting from the rusted Chevrolet into Trevor’s eyes. They drop by a couple of subway stations when the commute arrives in waves. Trevor watches Joe piston across the platforms from an iron bench and they leave when he starts to complain about the metal leaving welts marks in his thighs. Aron only appears when they get back, starts his day with a can of energy drink and a Hershey’s bar and disappears behind his laptop screen without speaking. 

James and Aleks are somewhere, everywhere. They dip in and out of stores and wander along streets. James squeezes the backs of necks and Aleks lights cigarettes under windows and stares straight into the glass. On quiet days they meet plainclothes cops in bars, giggling as they slide rolls of dollars into palms with tiny bombs of molly in their centres. In the quiet streets at dusk they coil ideas around each other; warehouse, superlab, heists, LA. Their eyes are shining and bright, the warmth of their excitement curling slowly around their hearts. 

Later, the house is full. Joe serves something warm and filling and Aleks lights a joint. The sun creeps down the slats of the back yarn fence and James sits on the back step, his fingers drawing circles in the corgi’s fur. He rambles to Trevor in the kitchen, who washes plates and smiles. At weekends, James and Joe nap until the clubs spill out. They are silent in the car, yawning as they loiter at the cross-roads. They watch oiled dudes rubbing against sloppy rib-thin girls and try to spot sellers that aren’t theirs. They nudge each other and nod, burn their faces into memory and follow them home. Aleks doesn’t go but he stays up, drinking coffee and checking his phone. His favourite knife balances on the edge of the kitchen counter and his heartbeat is thick in his ears. 

-x-

Elyse is blonde and tiny. She is pink doll pale and thin as thread. She holds her shotgun close to her face and grins with gleaming pearled teeth. She is the whole of FunHaus. She is death incarnate. Aleks is scared of her. 

They ride in tandem before the sun thinks of rising. The van are rigid with waiting. James checks his gun. Checks his gun again. Trevor’s mouth is chewed to shreds. His sighs echo into the silence. Joe’s leg jogs against Aleks’ and the breeze streaming through the aircon is brittle and burning. The sky is slate grey and gristle. The harbour at Del Ray is thick with half-light. The yachts clink gently and the water of the marina slithers over the chrome boats, humming softly. Elyse is driving them; her bare legs pressed up against the leather interior, her bright red nails digging into the soft skin of the steering wheel. She sings under her breath. Aleks thinks he hears Seal. He is even more scared of her. 

The rest of FunHaus climb out of their truck. Bruce is wearing black swimshorts. James is stifling his growling laughter under his fingers. Aleks’ palms are slick with sweat. The remains of the Vet and his Creatures are stashed in his chartered yacht, facing out to the sea. The white boat sways and the reflection blurs in the mottled water. There is the undercurrent of something visceral and sick running under Aleks’ skin. He blinks. He can see the chainsaw bite marks in Aron’s skin, the blood pooling in the cream carpet, the feel of bone grinding against bone. James checks his gun for the third time. Aleks thwacks him in the balls. He collapses to the boardwalk with a pained hiss, and Bruce snorts. Elyse tuts and opens the trunk. She slides two handguns into holsters on her thighs, clips ammo on a belt around her skirt. 

‘Albino Lara Croft.’ James says, crouched in the foetal position on the wooden slats. 

She raises one eyebrow at him, and laughs; light and tinkling. She gestures to Aleks. ‘You’re the knife guy, right?’

Aleks nods. She leans into the trunk and pulls out a black leather pouch. She hands it to Aleks. 

Present from Brett.’ She says. 

‘Faceless Brett.’ James is on his back now, his eyes scrunched tight. 

A Buck Alaskan knife nestles in the structured velvet; the rosewood handle buffed and polished. ‘Fuck.’ He shifts it in his hands. It is weighted. He slips the blade through the velvet and separates it, like petals dribbling from roses. He looks up and catches Trevor’s face; white and grey. His neck dark red and throbbing. He rubs at his eyes and turns away. Aleks licks his lips and forces a grin. 

‘Thanks Elyse.’ 

She smiles, turns back to car to lock it. ‘Don’t thank me, thank Brett.’ 

Aleks drops the knife in the space between his belt and his jeans. 

Bruce nudges him. ‘Time to go hunting?’

Aleks nods and reaches a hand out to James. 

They split before the boat. Bruce, Joe and James head first, the techie in their ears. Joe ghosts over the named sterns, his feet padding over the swells and his hands checking the locked seat boxes. Bruce wades under the plank walkway at the water's edge and uses the wood to pull himself along, his gun in his month. His eyebrows knitted and his back tensed. James walks along the marina edge alone. His sneakers creak and the first rays of the sun crack over the horizon, hazy and dew-stained. Aleks and the rest watch from a distance, slumped and slouched over benches and car bonnets; trying their best to look like they don’t want to be there at all. The techie points out three watchers and Joe scales over the steel bars of the boat to take out the one camped on the roof, dozing off in the morning mist. Joe covers his mouth and leans his weight through an elbow into the hollow of his throat, never one for bloodshed. The other two watchers stand up, their eyes on James as he marches, head down, along the dock. Behind them, Bruce crawls out of the water, drenched and deadly. He shoots the first one in the back as he reaches for his radio. James gets the other and the sound splits through the still of the marina. Neither of them scream. Joe clambers down. Elyse punches Aleks in the arm. It thrums across his chest. ‘We’re up.’ 

They jog across to the boards. James is trying to rub blood from his pants and Bruce is dropping radios into the sea. The majority of Funhaus scale to the top of the boat. Guns out, faces frozen and hard. Joe picks the lock at the cabin door, stands to one side to let Elyse and the rest of them past. He grips Aleks’ shoulder. Aleks sucks his cheeks in between his teeth and shakes his head. 

‘He’ll be burrowed as deep as you can go.’ Bruce says, low and steady. 

‘Stay here Joe.’ James’ grin is set deep into his skull. 

‘Wasn’t planning on going anywhere else,’ says Joe, letting go of Aleks’ shoulder. 

Inside, the boat reels. Elyse leads, using the polished hardwood walls as a steadier, her handgun bright in the rising sun billowing through the open windows. In the open galley, Elyse kills two men before they blink sleep from their eyes. They miss a balding beast hunched in a corner behind the door and he rushes at James before he can turn. They crash over the free standing table and into the drinks cabinet behind it. Crystal splinters across white leather. Elyse hisses and backs up. Aleks is too close behind her and they stumble, careering into the open door. Aleks swears and tries to wrestle himself away from her. He can’t see James. Trevor roars and stutters forward. He fumbles at his trigger. Spreads bullets into the floor. Burns gunpowder into air already saturated with blood splatter and body heat. James squeals in pain and Trevor drops his gun. Aleks sees movement from the stairs heading down. Elyse is there first. She aims from the floor and opens an abdomen over the rug. James’ breathing is brash loud, swirling around Aleks’ head. He forces himself upright and sweeps the remains of the table out of his way with his foot. Elyse huffs as she stands. Blowing her hair out of her face and grinding her teeth. James lies under a dead mountain. He blinks and breathes fast and shallow. Trevor is there. Sweating and apologising. Pulling James free. 

‘Where he get you?’

‘It was you Trevor. You fucking got me.’

James’ thigh is pissing blood, it gurgles when he sits up and wheezes. 

Elyse kneels over him, prods at the wound with the tip of her pistol. James squeaks and tries to wriggle away. She tuts, ‘Safety’s on.’ She looks up at Aleks’. ‘Our medic is outside.’

‘Take him.’

‘Aleks-’ James’ face is turning a dark bile green. 

‘It’s fine dude, I’ve got this. Me and Trevor have got this.’

‘Do we?’ 

Aleks swats at Trevor’s head. ‘Course, fucking idiot.’

Elyse looks over her shoulder. ‘We’ve taken out four here, three outside. Should only be one left.’ 

Aleks coughs. ‘Go.’

She hikes James’ arm over her shoulder and stands slowly, her legs shaking. He groans, his foot hangs limply, useless. Elyse drags him out and his leg trails behind him. Aleks watches them go with his ears ringing. 

-x-

They move in the aching, amber end of fall. LA spreads its tendrils far enough to brush them all, even in Colorado. St. Arch is too small, the forest creeping round the edges of town boxes them in, suffocating and stiff. Aron and Aleks leave first. An apartment and a warehouse in Culver City, unfurnished and white washed. Aleks lies on his naked mattress and picks at the stitching. Everything is too hot, and his hands are always muggy. He buys from street dealers, eating at ears and flipping his butterfly knife in bright angry daylight. He waits for someone bigger to take notice; Trevor’s diamond cut art scalding in his pocket. Aron fits him with wires and tapes and tiny cameras. They listen into the police chatter and the lab guys humming along to the radio. The sky is cut into pink and red ribbons. They pick up whispers about the Vet along cell-lines and under the washing strings arched over alleyways. He is Latino. Heavy set and sharp jawed. He chews his nails down the bone and bites his prostitutes hard enough to scar. Under hard striplights and a blue chipped disco ball, Aleks shows him their crystal and avoids the wet empty gaze of the girl nearest him, her tits bare and streaked with stretchmarks. The Vet’s pets are on every corner, their fish eyes boring into his soul. He calls his protection the Creatures. Aleks’ hates him. They’ll never get a name he thinks, they’ll never sink that low. James promises Joe they won’t take over the trafficking. ‘Someone else’ll pick them up, ’ he says. Aleks ignores his dread and digs his nails into his palms. 

James and him meet the Vet in scrubland, weeks after. Aleks has started to itch every time he touches his knife. The Vet wants to negotiate, his nose purged and burning from Trevor’s chemical genius. Aleks scuffs his shoes against the fried dead soil and watches the Vet extract himself from his car, his stomach drooling over his belt and the buttons of his shirt straining against his forest chest. His moustache bustles across his face, puckering his cheeks and slipping into his wet mouth. Aleks’ stomach roils and he turns his head to spit into the dirt. 

James bumps his shoulder into Aleks’, trying to catch his eye. ‘For a bit, dude.’

‘I know.’ Aleks whispers. 

The Vet is flanked by two Creatures. They’re wearing white shirts and tan suits, Miami Vice knockoffs. His driver stays in the car, Aleks can see him tapping on the steering wheel. A pistol glinting on the dashboard. The Vet stops feet from them, his shoes snakeskin and shiny. 

‘Boys!’ His voice is throaty and thick. ‘Hillbillys.’

James laughs, nasal and high. ‘That’s us.’

Aleks sucks his teeth.

‘Still talking about Ludlow?’

James frowns and looks at Aleks. He shrugs. His spine is taut with tension.

The Vet tuts. ‘Too young for your own history? Need to do some reading boys.’

They’re silent and the Vet keeps talking. ‘Did you even finish High School? Probably not,’ he points to James’ sneakers. ‘Not with shoes like that.’ He laughs. One of the tan suits chuckles, once, and then turns to look back at the car.

Aleks smirks. 

‘We kinda did our own thing.’ James is cutting back on his vowels, tightening up on his accent. 

‘I can see that. Although,’ the Vet tilts his head, ‘you’ve at least got the gear to back it up.’

James licks his lips. 

‘I want some to sell.’

‘And we someone to sell to.’

‘Fucking fabulous.’

‘We need a warehouse too, we only have a couple of guys making the stuff. The space back in Colorado is too far away for a quick turnover.’ Aleks narrows his eyes, but doesn’t interrupt. He thinks they could maybe get some bodies in to help Trevor out once they actually have a warehouse.

‘I’m sure we could work that one out.’ The Vet sighs. ‘I need some reassurance from you though.’

‘What kind of reassurance?’

James is holding his own. He is taller than the Vet and is leaning into the conversation, hiding his shaking hands in the pocket of his jeans. Aleks takes his lead and slumps against the car, folding his arms across his chest and chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

‘You been to Burbank?’

‘No.’ James lies. 

‘There’s a frustrating little group of crack-whores holding onto that place like fucking dogs.’ The Vet sniffs noisily and rubs the palm of his hand across his nose. ‘If I give you a third of my sellers to go through, I’ll take 40% of all you take.’

James starts to inject, but the Vet raises his voice over him. ‘If, _if,_ you manage to curb-stomp FunHaus out of Burbank - I’ll cut it to 30%.’ 

Aleks raises a single eyebrow at James, who blinks once and nods. 

‘Sweet,’ he says. He pulls his hand out of his pocket and spits on it, holds it out in the space between him and the Vet. A sneer pulling at his mouth. 

The Vet widens his eyes. ‘That easy?’

‘Yes.’ James wriggles his hand slightly. 

There is a terse silence. ‘We’ve got no contacts here,’ James’ voice is melting into something painted in gravel. 

The Vet takes his hand. ‘You’ll get anyone of mine selling South of Manchester Square.’ He lets go of James’ hand and wipes his fingers on his pants. He turns back to his car. ‘Keep me in the loop boys.’ 

A Creature steps up to James. His teeth are yellow and his tan is turning him mahogany. ‘Buy a suit by next month. There’ll be a party at Beachwood. He’ll want you there.’ He glares at Aleks, who smiles blankly. He snorts and follows the Vet back to their car.

Aleks and James watch the matte black Merc struggle over the desert brush and, in the distance, slip back onto the tarmac highway. 

‘Well. He’s a fucking dumbfuck, isn’t he?’

James explodes into laughter that pours across the empty waste of land. 

-x-

Trevor waits until the door behind Elyse and James swings shut. 

He swivels to lock his gaze with Aleks. He is grey and green and sweating. He opens his mouth but Aleks stops him before he speaks. 

‘Don’t,’ he says, ‘You grazed him. It hadn’t gone the whole way through. He’ll be fine.’ 

‘But -’

‘He’ll be fucking fine.’

‘Don’t kill me.’ Trevor’s eyes are red-rimmed and glittering. 

Aleks’ heart drops out through his stomach. He reaches up to sling his arm over Trevor’s shoulder.

‘Trevor.’ His voice cracks a little. ‘Fuck. No. You’re… No.’

Trevor swallows and nods. 

‘Go and see him and Joe are alright.’ Aleks coughs.

‘You want to look him out by yourself, with your cast-’

‘I’ll be fine you cuck. Go.’

Trevor hurries to the door, his gun dangling from his hand. 

‘I don’t need you shooting me in the fucking dick man.’ 

Trevor’s laugh is smothered in tears.

Aleks’ grin fades as he heads down the stairs. He pulls his knife from his belt, the handle slick in his damp grip. He can feel his heart fluttering against his ribcage, a trickle of sea-salt sweat running down the back of his neck. The door at the bottom of the stairs is locked. Aleks pushes his clammy hand against the frame and jams his knife into the lock hinge, pushing the bolt back into the door and crushes his weight against it. It opens slowly. A chair under the handle grinds along the floor, scouring the floorboards. On the silk stained double bed, sitting up against the headboard, is the Vet. The barrel of his pistol digging into his temple. He narrows his eyes when he sees Aleks and sighs, dropping the hand holding his gun. He is wearing boxers and a grey-white vest, the edges at his armpits rubbed and yellowing. Face down next to him, a long-dark haired girl lies. Spread and bleeding. Her breaths are deep and quiet, she shuffles in her sleep, curls in on herself and Aleks’ jaw tightens, the bruises across her hips dark and red-rimmed. 

‘She’s coked up. Won’t wake up.’

Aleks tilts his head to look up at the Vet, who is turning a cigarette to pulp with his teeth. His gun hand limp and dangling. 

‘I hear you’re the knife boy.’ The Vet leans towards the side of the bed and Aleks drops his knife so he can lift his gun to cover him. He pulls back the safety clip. The Vet puts both hands in the air, dropping his gun on the bedspread. He motions to the sideboard with his head. ‘Lighter.’

Aleks nods and follows his fingers as he lights his cigarette. He blows a thin reel of smoke out from between his full, hairy lips and Aleks is exhausted. His eyes hurt and his shoulders ache. He leans back against the wall. Underneath his hooded eyelids he can see Aron, his long fingers on his keyboard, under the corgi’s chin. Joe as he pulls him from the dumpster, his face wet with tears and sweat, trembling as he desperately tries to wipe blood from the gutters of his fingers. Trevor; the new gaunt taint to his face, the thin little scars on the other sides of his wrists, the retching in the middle of the night. And James, James, coughing on his own laughter as his blood pulses into swirling seawater, the gleam of something _fucking dangerous_ the last thing to leave him. 

‘I suppose you’re going to tell me I underestimated you?’

Aleks shrugs. ‘You already know you did.’

‘You took out Calvin?’

‘He pissed himself in his wife’s closet.’

The Vet frowns, takes another drag and nods. ‘Figures.’ He gestures around the room. ‘This really want you what for yourself?’

‘What? A fuck off yacht. A drugged underage girl?’

He tuts, a tiny spark of fire left. Aleks’ tightens his grip around his gun. 

‘No. This.’ The Vet waves his hand at Aleks. ‘Someone always behind you. Always ready. Waiting.’

‘We aren’t going to be like you wer-’

‘Doesn’t matter. You think your stuff is always going to be the best? You think you’ll always have your knife under the right neck? You’ll spend your entire fucking life watching your back and you’ll still end up with a concrete block tied around your legs and a bullet hole in your heart.’ 

Aleks keeps his gun steady as he shoves his knife back in his pants. He sniffs. The Vet is eyeing him, his pupils tiny and his face squashed. 

‘How many people do you trust?’ Aleks asks. His voice quiet. 

The Vet smirks. ‘You think your friends wi-’

‘How many people do you trust?’ He pulls at each word, louder with each syllable.

‘No-one, you piece of sh-’ 

Aleks shoots him. His right eye is smeared across the bed. The Vet slumps forward and the girl next to him doesn’t move. 

‘Well, there’s your fucking problem right there.’ Aleks watches the girl breathe for a minute, the wave of nausea is quieter now, all in his head. 

At the top of the stairs, he screams for Elyse. She arrives red-faced and flustered, Trevor and Joe tripping over her heels. 

‘What?’

‘There’s a girl with him.’

Elyse’s eye are wide. ‘Seriously?’

He shrugs. ‘What?’

She leans into his chest with one tiny spiked finger. ‘Don’t scream. Don’t shout. Ever.’

He grins. ‘She’s unconscious.’

Elyse is livid. She storms past him. ‘Fuck’s sake Aleksander.’

Trevor is bouncing in his face. 

‘What? I’m fine. How’s Ja-’

There’s banging from downstairs. ‘It’s a fucking mess down here, asshole. Go get Bruce.’

Joe pulls him into a one-armed hug.

Outside, James is lying on the wooden dock, his hands behind his head. The white bandage around his leg virgin and untouched. ‘You made it!’ He uses an arm to shield his eyes from the sun, finally over the horizon, soft warmth on Aleks’ damp back. 

‘You going to die?’

‘Nah, not today. Trevor missed all my major vessels, the scamp.’

Trevor apologizes and everyone ignores him. 

Aleks clambers up to the dock to sit next to James. 

James stills. ‘It go-’

Aleks cuts across him. ‘It went.’

James raises an eyebrow and is silent. They watch Elyse and Bruce drag the girl onto deck, sagging between them. 

‘You remember when Trevor said he wasn’t dying for this.’

James sucks his teeth and spits. 

‘I’m not either.’

James tilts his head. ‘Well then...what are you dying for?’

‘I mean, I won’t die for this.’ Aleks waves a hand over the yacht, swarming with built bodies and polished guns. ‘But I’ll die for the guys. You, Trevor, Joe.’

James ducks his head. ‘I would have died for Aron.’

Aleks swallows. ‘Yeah I know.’

‘Never fucking again.’

‘Never fucking again,’ Aleks rubs at the back of his neck. 

Somewhere the engine turns on, rumbling across the boat and churning at the still water. 

‘They’re going to take it out to dump the bodies.’ James explains. 

‘Thought of everything.’

James hums. 

Bruce and an equally giant FunHaus member are pulling the ropes from the mooring bollards. 

‘Come on.’ Aleks stands and pulls James up with him.

In the distance, the liquid light is crawling into their part of town, over the open warehouse where the concrete walls are bright and the twisted iron fence is jagged and barbed. Trevor’s boys are pouring acid over blocks of something toxic and dead, their faces covered in surgical masks. In a basement somewhere, the light trickles in through the grate ground window and sellers count their money in smooth, slow strokes or close up tiny ziplock bags coated in fingerprints and the residue of something sticky. The addicts in their rented boxes and protected street corners slowly stir from sleep, the sun on their fingertips far too much like the heat of human skin and their dreams knotted in broken edges and sharp teeth. In their house on Overland Avenue, the corgi is whining, her bowl empty. 

Aleks breathes and the salt air tastes of gasoline and blood. The sun is bright in his eyes and the elbow inside his cast grinds against his skin. He is wired, intact, new. His hand tightens around his knife and he grins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you, for forcing yourself through this.   
> Reward yourself. I think chocolate always works best.

**Author's Note:**

> The fear of getting caught is horribly real.   
> I apologise for mistakes, stereotypes and cliches.


End file.
